The elevator came to a screeching halt.
Not violently — but with that quiet, ominous jolt that makes the world feel like it missed a heartbeat.
Time froze.
Everything stood still except for the buzzing phone in the corner of the elevator, its vibration ricocheting off the metal walls like an alarm he couldn't silence.
Ji-Hwan stared at it, pulse thudding painfully in his throat.
"Who… who is that?"
"How would they have my number?"
"…No. How would they know my life is a nightmare?"
"Is this timing insane, or do they know something they shouldn't?"
The questions crashed over each other, piling up faster than he could breathe.
His hand trembled as he reached for the phone.
His throat felt tight, swollen, each breath scraping its way out as if the air had grown too heavy.
The tear tracks on his cheeks had dried stiff — not "crispy," exactly, but the kind of gritty saltiness that made his skin itch and reminded him he was still very, very awake.
The elevator shuddered once.
A soft ding echoed.
Then the doors creaked open.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
As if whatever was waiting on the other side had been listening the entire time.
The elevator doors creaked open—slow enough to feel dramatic, but not slow enough to justify the level of terror crawling up Ji-Hwan's spine.
He held his breath.
Nothing jumped out.
No shadows.
No ghost of his grandfather.
Just… the empty lobby.
Ji-Hwan let out a shaky exhale and immediately regretted how loud it sounded.
"…Okay," he whispered to himself. "So it's not a ghost. Good. Great. Wonderful."
He bent down to pick up his phone—only to bump his forehead on the elevator railing on the way down.
CLUNK.
He froze.
"…Ow."
He rubbed the spot, then sighed deeply, dropping his hand.
"Fantastic, Ji-Hwan. Fired, emotionally destroyed, and now headbutting elevators. At this rate the elevator might file a report against you."
His voice cracked, caught between a laugh and a sob.
He finally grabbed the phone, holding it like it might bite him.
The screen was cracked—of course it was.
"Perfect. Amazing. Why not? Please, universe, don't hold back. I insist."
He wiped at his dried tears again, grimacing.
"Ugh—my face feels like a salted pretzel."
He sniffed.
"I am a man of dignity. A pretzel-faced man, but still."
For a moment, he laughed—just a small puff of disbelief.
The kind of laugh that comes only because every other emotional option hurts too much.
But beneath it, the dread still pulsed.
The message.
The ringtone.
The familiar line.
His grandfather.
The humor faded from his expression, swallowed by something deeper.
"…Grandpa? Why now?"
He stepped out of the elevator, the cracked phone warm in his grip, his heartbeat still not entirely steady.
"What is happening to me?"
As he stared at the phone, the cracked screen seemed to stare right back—like it was the one waiting for him to explain what was going on.
Ji-Hwan squinted at it, as if expecting it to offer answers if he stared hard enough.
The notification buzzed again.
BRRRRR.
Another shock zipped down his spine, but this time he only let out a tiny, exhausted chuckle—half sarcasm, half survival instinct.
"Mighty persistent, aren't we? Can't you give me and my broken phone at least five minutes to recover from the first jump scare?"
He shook his head, pocketing the phone as he stepped out of the elevator and turned the corner.
The lobby opened before him—grand, polished, the type of place meant to impress clients—but right now it felt small. Suffocating. Like the walls were gently, politely guiding him toward the exit.
Ji-Hwan walked slowly, each footstep heavier than the last, as if the building itself wanted to make this harder.
"This is really it for me and this place, huh?"
He said it lightly, almost breezy, but his voice carried that quiet tremor of someone pretending the moment didn't hurt.
His mind drifted back to the message.
Why now?
Why him?
Why promise dreams to someone who couldn't even remember the last time he'd had one?
"Grant my dreams…" he muttered under his breath. "Great. How do you grant dreams to someone who—congratulations—stopped dreaming years ago?"
He snorted softly. "Good luck with that."
He reached the front doors.
Weirdly, his heart felt a little lighter—as if accepting defeat counted as emotional housekeeping.
The doorman looked up, sympathy in his eyes.
Ji-Hwan forced a grin and saluted weakly.
"See you around… or not."
He let out a laugh—thin, brittle—but a laugh nonetheless. The kind that tried very hard to hide the sting of losing everything.
He pushed through the revolving door.
It spun slowly.
Painfully slowly.
Like it, too, wanted to savor the drama of kicking him out.
But before he fully crossed the threshold, something stopped him.
A sound.
Faint.
Fragile.
Raw.
A woman's quiet crying—a barely-there echo drifting from one of the first-floor offices.
Ji-Hwan froze mid-step, the revolving door nudging his back like, Come on, sir, emotional collapse cannot be done here, please exit fully.
But he didn't move.
Because that cry sounded exactly like he had sounded just minutes ago.
Exactly like someone whose world had also cracked open.
His breath hitched.
"…Someone else?" he whispered.
His humor faded—not gone, but rearranged into something gentler. Curious. Human.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the sound.
Whatever this day was turning into…
he was no longer the only one breaking.
But before leaving, he heard something faint—
a sound fragile enough to almost disappear beneath the hum of the lobby lights.
A woman's quiet sob from somewhere in the first-floor offices.
Ji-Hwan froze mid-step.
For a moment, he wondered if the building itself was echoing his earlier breakdown back at him… but no.
This was someone else. Someone real.
Someone hurting just as badly as he had been minutes ago.
A strange chill slipped down his spine—not fear exactly, but the eerie sense that the universe was tugging invisible strings.
Two strangers breaking in the same place, on the same night.
That couldn't be chance.